Boys and girls of the class, raise your hand if you find it not quite so funny when a friend, associate or even someone you couldn’t care any less about seems to work their personal problems into a conversation with you, in hopes that you’d ask them what’s wrong.

This act is done by a lot of people and overlooked by many. It goes unnoticed because it’s one of those things no one actually stops to pay attention to, needless to say except the person who keeps working their issues into the convo. The subtle remarks are carefully inserted into related [and sometimes unrelated] subject matters and seemingly come out of nowhere, yet make the biggest silent impact on the person who’s forced to hear it and care even less than they did when the situation remained cohort.

This may come as a shock to some, but the truth of the matter is more people than you’d think could give a sh*t about your problems because everyone on the planet has problems of their own, so if no one asks you what’s wrong after the fiftieth time you’ve griped about your uninteresting predicament, it’s pretty much common knowledge that no one really cares. Stop imposing and stop whining. Just stop because the person you’re buzzing up has long since stopped listening. The only person who can get away with speaking without actually saying anything is the teacher on “Charlie Brown,” and after a while even a viewer changes the channel.

If you want someone to know what the hell’s going on with you, tell them. Don’t beat around the bush. Don’t drop not-so-subtle hints. Don’t be slick with it. Most people aren’t going to jump into your business willingly and consciously because they don’t want to be blamed for any dumb decisions you make. Most people aren’t going to comment on your issues because you’ve probably spit out the answers to your own questions anyway. Most people are probably going to look straight through you in an effort to see the nearest “Exit” sign hanging somewhere behind you. However if you’re not careful, one day you’re going to come up against someone that isn’t like most people. And that person will willingly listen to you gloat about the stupidity and/or humdrum that is your life and will turn around and do one or all of the following: (1) Tell you the truth – something you probably don’t want to hear; (2) Tell you, “so what?” – something else that you probably don’t want to hear; or (3) Tell any and everyone all about your business – and in case you didn’t know, your dirt sounds way more interesting coming from someone who isn’t you. The problem is words get twisted when they are spoken from someone else’s lips. But because you insist on monopolizing an unwarranted conversation with someone who blatantly doesn’t give a rat’s ass, that’s just the price you have to pay. Whether you learn a lesson or not isn’t anyone else’s problem but your own. On the other hand as we stay true to the subject of this post, that last statement goes in one ear and right out of the other.

If I were to tell you that 90% of any effort is getting started, I’d most likely be referring to you learning when to shut up.

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Quote of the week: “Some people talk a whole lot about nothing because it’s the only thing they know anything about.”

In this day and age, dating has become more difficult than ever, well with all the games that people play and the stipulations for the potentialities of the dates themselves. Some people are hopeful while others bear all on chance, luck and booze. But if you ask me, no matter how dry your well is or how hot your crotch may be, there should still be some limitations on what should and shouldn’t be considered acceptable “dating” behavior, especially when referring to the dreaded first date.

Today we are not going to focus on all the right things that should take place during a first date. It’s too mushy and not as much as fun as pin-pointing all the wrong and bad sh!t that can and more often than not goes wrong. We’ve discussed first date rules before, however during my course of eavesdropping on conversations at a few dine-in establishments over the last few weeks, I’ve concluded that a ball park figure of about five gazillion daters need to be reminded of what not to do on a first date. I understand that there may be some that asks who am I say? Quite frankly, responding in my best Rick James voice, “I’m Hottywood, bitch!”

Rule #1:Don’t show up for a first date showing too much. I’m not going to spend too much time focusing on this because I’m sure all you bright citizens (and illegal aliens – the rules of dating apply to all who ultimately wants to get laid one day or one way or another) know what the hell I mean.

Ladies, don’t show too much cleavage (that includes back cleavage), legs (especially if your date is the size of Professor Clump, because he may mistake them for drum sticks and may possibly try to eat you using a pitch fork, a butter knife and the nearest bottle of hot sauce), forehead zits (for obvious reasons) or wear too much makeup (think Ronald McDonald or the creepy little puppet from all the Saw movies. Your bad makeup job will be the first thing your date sees and the last thing they remember, causing you to be the punch line of all their jokes as they tell their friends what a disaster you were your date was). Doing any of these things will change your date’s perspective of you, causing him/her to think you’re cheap, horny, greasy, a piece of meat or an extra in a rural area carnival side show. Don’t get me wrong, ladies. By all means, please tease! You want to give your date something to look forward to. Just be careful not to serve it all on a platter before time of the main course. Everyone knows all things don’t taste as good as they smell.

Fellas, don’t show too much chest hair (old school pimp status), man boobs (no chick wants a man who has to buy and wear more bras than she does), ding ding prints (proves that your pants are too tight and may result in your Johnson not working right and causes your manhood to stink like rotten ketchup), belly button rings, tongue piercings or toe rings (are all gay and looks stupid on a man and if you wear them you should have a drink thrown in your face and never be allowed to date again).

Rule #2:Lose the cell phone for a while. It’s not a good look to give the illusion that you are more important than you are, especially when the person you’re breaking bread with doesn’t know enough about you to care. It makes you look like you’re eager to show that you have friends or overly proud that you just bought a new cell phone. It’s also rude and indicates that the person you’re communicating with over the phone warrants your attention more than the person you’re communicating with over the table. If that’s the case then you made the date with the wrong person and you need to take your ass back home and try again and hope like hell they don’t do the same thing to you. Also cell phone frequencies slowly causes cancer and makes your appetizer course taste funny.

Rule #3:Tongue kissing on a first date is a no-no! Let’s be honest, nobody knows where the hell your lips have been, much less your tongue. Halitosis may be an issue. Gum disease could be a problem. You wouldn’t get punched in the teeth for forgetting your dentures, obviously but you could still get decked some place else unless you forget your false stomach or your silicone forehead. Try a kiss on a cheek (the face, not the ass). It’s safer. You even want to be careful kissing someone on their hand because if no one ever told you, people do some strange things with their hands.

Rule #4:Don’t reveal too much personal information. Under any circumstances do you ever want to reveal too much about yourself too soon. Very rarely do you get a second chance to make a first impression. Do not bring up your money problems because they imply that you are either cheap, broke, a closeted bank robber or an excessive gambler. Don’t talk about any past relationships because it will lead your date down a path of searching for reasons [through your words and actions during the remaining moments of your get-together] of why your ass is single now. Don’t talk about your sex life. That’s an instant buzz kill simply because there are so many red flags attached. For example, when you talk about your past love life, you look horny, desperate, prostitutish, and often times not hot enough for anyone to believe that you’ve gotten the ass you’re boasting about. If you must bore your potential companion with a serious case of TMI, make sure it isn’t until the liquor bottle is half empty, that way you can blame your diarrhea of the mouth on the booze and your date will more likely appreciate being drunk so they don’t have to comprehend what you’re actually saying.

Rule #5:Last but not least, don’t spend any time blatantly advertising how attractive you are. Let your date do that, otherwise you might as well strap a full length body mirror to the vacant seat at your dinner table. Truth be told, anyone who thinks that much of their self isn’t worth thinking much about.

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Quote of the week: “People are like foreign foods. Everything that smells good doesn’t taste good.”

It’s never easy to accept that you have flaws, despite the flaws anyone may point out. Luckily for you Hottywood Helps! This little quiz will help you to realize that your ass is not as perfect as you think. Be warned that the truth hurts. But in the end, hurt never felt so good; although in this case it might.

When do you feel your best?

When you find yourself hooked up to an IV full of coffee.

When you’re too drunk to know where the hell you are.

When you’re nipples are hardest.

When you’ve waken up in a strange bed after a drunken romp with a horny one-eyed stud muffin from a Kansas trailer park.

When someone boosts your ego.

Never. You’re the complete opposite of “life of the party.”

When talking to people do you

Spit?

Stare at boobs?

Avoid eye contact?

Blink excessively?

Let your underarms do all the talking?

None of the above. You never speak to anyone because people say you sound as if you have a moutful of caramel.

When you go to a party or social gathering, do you

Sneak in the back door wearing criss-cross jeans and Shaq-brand tennis shoes from Payless or someplace even more cheap?

Make a loud and obnoxious entrance so everyone will have a legitimate reason to avoid you all night?

Announce the pee stain on your pants because you couldn’t find the bathroom.

French kiss all of the other guests after eating a bag of Funyons?

Fart out of the wrong end when you laugh uncontrollably?

None of the above. You never get invited to parties.

When you go out to eat in a public restaurant, do you

Chew with your mouth open because it’s more convenient to stuff more food down your throat while you’re still chewing what’s already in there?

Belch without saying excuse me (…although there’s nothing wrong with that unless you’re a midget. Then it’s just gross.)?

Order the most expensive meal on the menu knowing that you’re broke as shit?

Accidentally forget to wear pants on purpose?

Steal the utensils from the next table while the occupants are using them?

None of the above. You’ve been banned from public eating establishments for reasons only known by you and God and your imaginary friends.

When you are bored, do you

Make prank phone calls to old people and Chinese pet detectives?

Clean the lint out of your belly button?

Speak backwards while groping your private parts or the private parts of the person to whom you are speaking?

Try to whistle at a frequency only dogs can hear (mother-in-laws and supervisors not included)?

Make plans with more than one person knowing damn well you don’t have enough gas in your car to make it pass the hooker on the corner at the top of the hill?

None of the above. With the all the voices in your head, you never get bored.

Everyone knows work is the playground for the game of life’s tricks. Written in just about every employee handbook across the nation is a clause that limits our toleration of deadlines, meeting changes and everyone’s last minute assignments but our own. Because of this taming of the shrew, we are paid not to get beside ourselves when burdens become too much to bear without the heavy use of profanity, a 2×4 plank and a shot of non-communion wine. No matter how large the paychecks or how great the incentives, it’s safe to say that there are some days where we just don’t feel like being bothered with the game, the playground or the players. So to beat game at its own game, you have got to be able to think quick on your feet and be a better bullshitter than it.

The most common bullshit of them all is not minimizing your computer screen from the Solitaire game when your snoopy coworkers sneak into your cubicle. It is without question coming up with the best excuses to get out of work for the day.

According to a popular employment recruiting site, about 41% of hiring managers are suspicious of their employee’s excuses for getting out of work. Outside of a little cold or minor car trouble, most excuses aren’t believable, they say. I say “horse pucky!” What do they know? If life throws its highest cards at you while you sit behind a desk working for a stiff in a name brand necktie, why the hell shouldn’t you get a little creative with your excuses not to deal? After all, it is a game and your boss and coworkers are all major players on the field. If you must play you might as well get a little gutter with it. They’re dicking you one way or another.

Below are a few excuses that’ll help you cut your days at the office in half by 100%. Free free to use them at your leisure because although not being bothered is more than less than rare, having a good excuse not to fill a seat in the next departmental staff meeting trumps any card every time. Whether it’s believable or not is something the receiving ear has to take up with God.

40 Excuses To Get Out of Work

My bangs fell out and now I must to go buy some synthetic tresses or either a pack of extra thick eye brow hair to cover my big ass forehead.

I’m renting a baby llama for my girlfriend’s niece’s best friend’s business partner’s cousin and I need to stay home to vacuum the poop from the front door foyer and tip the delivery man.

At 3:00PM I’ve been scheduled to referee a pie fight between the Comcast and Verizon Fios cable men, since they both think their cable services are the best. The loser will come in next week to make up the hours that I’ve missed today.

I ran over a squirrel while texting during an illegal street race with a blind man on a bike.

The goldfish that I flushed this morning stopped up the toilet and now my cup runneth over.

I have to go to the airport to pick up my French-Asian pen pal, Delicia Van Wu.

My son beat up his teacher for taking his M&Ms during recess. The teacher threatened to have him expelled and now I have to go beat the teacher’s ass, myself.

There is an embarrassingly foul odor coming from only one of my armpits and I am afraid to leave the house because the stench might kill the pigeons that built a nest over my garage door.

I’m getting my butt hairs braided at the African hair gallery after lunch and will not be returning to the office. Ever.

Today is the only day that I am available to read my daughter’s diary without her knowing.

Today is National I Don’t Give a Fuck Day and I don’t give a fuck what you say, I will not be in the office at all.

I have a mandatory meeting with all the voices in my head and two bill collectors.

Someone told me that toenails can get long enough to scrape the ground. Now that my toenails have finally grown to an unbelievable length, I’d like to test the theory out for myself.

My turrets syndrome of belching keeps flaring up.

I’ve been meaning to return the library book that I borrowed back in the ninth grade. It’s slightly overdue by about eighteen years.

I’m putting my great uncle in a rest home and I need to go visit his grave to see if he approves of the neighborhoods the homes are located in.

My boyfriend just broke up with me and I have to go slash all the tires on his 10-speed bike. Training wheels included.

My kotex string broke.

I’m having man cramps.

My neighbor’s daughter swallowed my cat’s hairball and now I must call a vet to get a referral to a doctor.

I got laryngitis in my middle finger and will be unable to tell anyone to fuck off for three days.

My car flipped over six times before hurling over the rail of the 5th Street Bridge. I’m calling from the bottom of the ocean. I probably won’t be in tomorrow either unless there is an express way from Heaven leading to the office.

My grandmother ran out of glaucoma medicine and I have to stand on the corner and try to hustle a hustler into giving me a stash on credit. That could take all day.

I have massive rug burns on my knees and am unable to walk. You’ll have to get your own damn cup of coffee today!

I lost all my money playing bingo and now I don’t have any change to get on the bus.

I’m stuck in the photo booth at Walmart.

The dog ate my car keys. My wife at my car.

A booty call stole my alarm clock while I was in the bathroom coming up with a good excuse not to come to work.

I can’t find my shoes or my pet tarantula.

There is a busload of Jehovah’s witnesses outside my door and I’m hiding under the couch until they go away. This may take a while.

With all the boiled eggs I ate this morning I don’t want shit to hit the fan.

My mother-in-law came to town for the weekend and got into a terrible accident. I have to take her to the hospital for emergency surgery to get the stick removed from her ass.

My wife’s melons are sore from her recent breast implants and she needs me to stay home to massage them.

I won’t be in the office today because I owe someone money and work is the first place they’ll look for me. Oops! You’re the one I owe money to.

After reviewing my last paycheck, I suddenly became claustrophobic.

Someone told me hard work doesn’t guarantee a successful win so I’m not going to waste my time today.

I think my cocker-spaniel caught an STD from the neighborhood bitch and needs to be taken to the puppy clinic to get tested.

I’m calling in blind cause I just don’t see it happening today.

All my underwear have holes in them and I used the last bar of soap last night.

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Quote of the week: “Conway’s Law: In any organization there will always be one person who knows what is going on – This person must be fired.”

Am I the only one that wishes I had a bottle of insect repellent every time I walk inside a department store? I mean really. Is it absolutely necessary for a sales associate to hang around me like a mosquito? What is the politically correct way of telling them to get the hell away from me that doesn’t involve punching and a three-on-one battle with mall security? Seriously, it’s like as soon as I walk into the store I can feel their beaty little eyes counting the change in my pockets with their x-ray vision.

I shouldn’t walk into a store and feel as if I’ve stumbled into the wrong part of town where hustlers, prostitutes and crackheads throw themselves at me for my money. In fact it makes me hold tighter to my wallet. This is not only a major turn off, but a clear cut case of ‘No Way You’re Not Getting Any Commission Off Of Me, Sucka…I Have Mace!’

Explain to me why you think following me around the store like metal to a magnet and telling me I look good in the ugliest pair of jeans you have on the rack is going to persuade me to extinguish the fire that’s burning a hole in my pocket. If you would only take a minute and think to yourself inside one of these dressing rooms, you’d consider the notion that I worked approximately 70 to 80 hours for 10% of my paycheck and there is no way in hell or any other place that’s equally as hot 3 months out of the year that I’m just gonna hand it over to you, just because you flashed some phony ass smile.

You’re getting paid what…like four bucks an hour? I know you’re making your wages off me. But this is how it’s supposed to go: I walk in. You greet me [cue your phony smile]. I browse around for a while. You keep your hungry vulture-like appetite to yourself until you see that I’m blatantly undecided between two items in my hand. Then you ask me if I need help with anything.

The formula is simple. It’s just like trying to get someone’s number at a party, club, or wherever fate may lead you. Have some game before you make your move. Take your time. Then ease your way in. Otherwise you’ll end up being that weirdo at the party that gets no play!

So I’m gonna keep this one short and sweet. Back up and be patient. I came to shop. You’re here to sell. It’s the rule. It was established, like forever ago.

The hungriest dog doesn’t always get the bone.

Now let’s try this again. It can’t be that hard. After all, 90% of any effort is getting started.

Okay, ready. Set. GO…!

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Quote of the Week: “Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a
lack of imagination.”

A life without secrets is boring. Shocking, I know…but true nonetheless. Secrets build character and adds to the intrigue of a person. They have a way of making you wonder what someone has to hide, therefore making that someone interesting. Secrets are good and everyone should have at least one. In fact, the mystique of a secret often leads to great unknown possibilities.

However such is not the case for my peeps who insist on showing their ass.

This one goes out to all my fellas; for the love of all mankind, “Pull yo’ damn pants up!”

Fellas, what kind of opportunities do you think will open up to you if the best selling point about yourself is the type of underwear you buy? If there’s anything you need to share with all the rest of the world the least, it should be your damn drawers.

Now I consider myself to be an “in” kind of guy but we’ve gone from one extreme to another. First it was those wretched skinny jeans. Or as I like to call them, “straight jackets for legs.” I thought we’d never get over that phase. And now this?! Seriously, 85% of men wear the same underwear for at least three days, anyway, before switching to a new pair. So what’s the point? Why does anyone feel a need to publically showcase their dirty unmentionables? And more importantly, what the hell is so stylish about this?

Is it really necessary to show the entire world your Fruit of the Looms, tighty whities or skid marks? I have but only one word to say in response to this intimate issue that translates into a big, fat T.M.I. (Too Much Information). And I think it’s safe to speak for everyone when I say, “Ugh.”

Real talk, ya’ll. Stop.

I challenge you to remember this one little thing even if you never remember anything else for the rest of your days:

“Never trust anyone who shows their ass before they show they face.”

This just in… “Belts are not the enemy.” It’s time to step outside the box and give them a try.

TIDBIT ABOUT BELTS:

In modern times, men started wearing belts in the 1920s, as trouser waists fell to a lower line. Before the 1920s, belts served mostly a decorative purpose, and were associated with the military. Today it is common for men to wear a belt with their trousers.

Since the mid 1990s, the practice of sagging has been popular at times among young men and boys. This fashion trend consists of wearing the trousers very low on the hips, often exposing the underwear and buttocks of the wearer. This urban style, which has roots tracing to prison gangsand the prohibition of belts in prison (due to their use as weapons and devices for suicide) has remained popular into the 21st century, particularly among pubescent boys.

So it kind of pisses me off to see old men walking around with their waist hems dropped to their knee caps, or young boys who may not grow up because they’re following the stupid fashion trend of letting their pants fall down.

What is it about the concept of belts that is so difficult to grasp? Belts represent power. Think of a dad whooping some sense into his bad ass kid’s ass. Not only does a belt represent power, it represents authority, control and style.

Speaking of style, a belt is one of the first three things a person looks at in order to determine a man’s character, or to someone who’s completely shallow and materialistic, it determines a man’s physical attraction.

After all, it is often said that the necktie, the belt and the shoes make all of the man.

I don’t know where that saying came from. Probably some chick. But who cares? Whatever keeps the underwear concealed works for me. There are just some things one man doesn’t need to know about another, and one of those some things are his drawers.

A wise man once said, “If you reveal too much, you’re left with no secrets to keep.”

The bottom line, folks, is this: As much as most people want to pretend it isn’t true, appearance is the first thing anyone sees when it comes to making a [premature] assessment about someone. If the first thing seen is someone’s butt, then it’s easy to assume that either that person is an ass or their ass is the most interesting thing about them. Some might beg to differ, but whoever does is probably just as much of an ass as the asshole that shows his ass before he shows his face.

The only opportunities that are going to open up for pants-saggers are chances to lay up with some jezebel who’s trying to find a baby daddy; get arrested by policemen who are patrolling to fill their arrest quotas for the week; and being approached by drug abusers who are looking for a new contact and quick fix. And while we’re at it, let’s consider the image it sets for adolescents who mimic the stupidities of adults who should know how to set better examples for children, but don’t.

Luck, life and anyone who isn’t getting royalty checks from the sales of rap records and sold out venues will tell you that you can’t move up in the world if your pants keep falling down. That’s a sure way to get screwed in the end.

FOR YOUR INFORMATION:

Belts aren’t the only thing that keeps your pants from falling. Scotch tape, masking tape, duct tape, and even shoe strings can serve the same purpose as belts. Homeless men are very inventive when it comes to keeping their pants up. Want to know why? The answer is simple. Because they know that 90% of any effort is getting started.

So fellas, I implore you to keep your skid marks to yourself. There’s too many sh*tty things going on in this world to be bombarded by the sh*t that’s happening in your pants.

In life we are introduced to new beginnings as we say goodbye to old endings. Windows break with closing doors; backs heal from knives strategically placed by those you’d least suspect would kill your joy; friends come and go; hearts break and mend with time; and lessons are learned with both careless and obvious mistakes. It is the process and evolution of learning what you’re made of as well as identifying and not underestimating the bullsh*t of those who force you into a deep ditch of doo-doo.

Life is all about choices…and there are plenty of them to make. It’s not hard to make them when you know what your values are. For it is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped.

But whatever choices you are faced to make and for whatever reason, you have to be strong in yourself and firm in your own beliefs so that your heart will not be lead astray by someone else’s way of thinking.

If you choose to wear Monday’s underwear on the Friday before you wash clothes, own up to being a stinky ass. The choice is yours to make.

If you choose to read books that have only pictures and no words, own up to being a dummy who appreciates the beauty in visual art. The choice is yours to make.

If you choose to serenade the deaf, own up to the possibility of not having enough talent to perform in front of those who may cover their ears with sticks of dynamite. The choice is yours to make.

The bottom line is if you don’t own up to the root of who you are or don’t design your own life plan, you’ll fall into someone else’s. And guess what that someone else will have planned for you. Often times, not much.

Lucky for us all 90% of any effort is getting started.

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Quote of the week: “There are times when a battle decides everything; and there are times when the most insignificant thing decides the outcome of a battle.” –Napoleon Bonaparte